


The Start of the Journey

by Hardrada



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:09:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25470652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hardrada/pseuds/Hardrada
Summary: A little snippet to dunk my toes.  It's where the relationship changes and  begins, all at the same time, inspired by THAT scene in STID.  There's nothing graphic, simple study of feelings and of a dawning something.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	The Start of the Journey

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written in this fandom, although many, many years ago I used to be a prolific writer in others. Then I went on what has basically been a 15 year drought, never writing another word. So this is kind of a big deal for me, to feel as if I'm at the start of a new set of tales.

The Start of the Journey

Of all the souls I have encountered in my travels, his was the most human

Inspired by the famous quote, even though I know that technically Kirk said it about Spock. But it works either way I think.

What do I mean by ‘human’? He was a human with all the faults and frailties that word implies. Rash and headstrong, foolish and vain. And with the heart of a lion, and an infinite capacity for love.

Over our brief time working together, he had shared all those traits with me – the good and the bad. Or what is perhaps perceived as bad but should instead be seen as just another endlessly-fascinating facet of the endlessly-fascinating creature that is the human. That was James Kirk.

And now – now I feel a void. A void that could so easily be filled with hatred. Hatred. An emotion that should be unknown to me, other than in the most cerebral way. I understand that there is such an emotion, but it is not something that I have ever considered that I would suffer. I felt pain when my planet was destroyed, I felt cast adrift, but even then he was there; he was there leading me home. Who is there to lead me home this time? I am part of a race notorious for not showing emotion, for being cold and clinical, but I am also part of his race with all the complexities that implies. And I am part of him in a way that I could never have imagined. He – undid me. He glowed with life and purpose and he undid me.

I was never cold with him. Right from the very start, from our first meeting, there was something about him that wormed its way under my skin. I knew he had cheated on the test; he knew that I knew, and yet still he stood there in front of me and all his contemporaries and refused to back down. Instead, he challenged me and that was something almost unheard of. Only Nyota challenged me like that – made me stop and think carefully before speaking. But Nyota came to me with calculation – she stood back, looked, considered and then made her move; he was too much like fire – he said what he thought and perhaps only really thought about it afterwards. He had what Dr McCoy has called “a mouth just the right size for his foot”. A phrase that I do not fully understand.

I should have known that he would sacrifice himself in the end. “How’s our ship?” was the first thing he said to me when I got to him. And of course it was, because above all else the ship was his first love. I have always known that, and indeed I shared that passion. Another thing that bound us. His first love. Perhaps his greatest.

I carried him. I held him in my arms and carried him to medical bay. The last service I could do for him. It no longer felt like him. I have never held him, but I have felt him beneath my hands, and I know how he should feel; alive and warm and ever-moving, ever-changing. What I held in my arms at that point was a dead body. It no longer even looked like the bright spirit who had created such havoc in my life.

I gave him into Dr McCoy’s keeping. Leonard, who had forged his own deep friendship with him, looked devastated, his eyes shells of pain and loss, but unlike me he was able to damp down his feelings under a shell of professionalism, or so I thought until I saw him gaze at the body lying on the table in front of him, and turn away. There would be so many people who would miss him, he had blazed such a trail. But that did not help me rein in my confusion and anger. I was failing him in every way by this behaviour. I should at least be able to control myself.

“I’ve got him, Spock,” Leonard said to me. “I’ll take care of him”.

And then I gave in to the pain and anger surging in my blood – my calm, logical, Vulcan blood – and I ran. I ran to find Khan and to make him pay. And I ran to escape that which I had lost. Perhaps in that moment I was in fact all human. Sharp edges and emotion and an endless pain.

I caught him. Of course I caught him. That man was not going to be allowed to escape, not from me, not from my vengeance. And I would have happily killed him; there was nothing in my brain but white noise, pain and always that void. And so I thank all the gods that I heard Nyota’s voice at the last minute, and in a strange way Khan became my saviour.

We got him back to the Enterprise. I did not need her help, but I still let her assist me, because it was what she needed. And so she helped me. Because she loved him, too.

Dear Leonard McCoy and his endless experimentation, his endless curiosity. I have rarely, if ever, been so grateful to someone. You see, he thought that he could save him. Could save Jim.

**

He was unconscious for two weeks. In that time, Khan was returned to hibernation, although not before more blood was taken for testing, to try and find what it was that made Khan – Khan.

I could not allow myself to hope. I sat by his bed watching the readouts, imagining his body fighting to survive – that strong spirit battling its way to victory.

“All he needs is to get one toehold,” Dr McCoy said to me. “If he does that, then he’ll begin climbing and he won’t stop until he reaches the top”.

“And will he get it, Doctor? That toehold?”

“I think he will,” was the response. “Some people are just born fighters, and he’s one of them”. He paused. “He may not be a particularly good fighter…” He trails off, clearly aware that he is in danger of saying the wrong thing. I appreciated that he was trying to bring some light into the darkness, but I did not have it in me to respond.

I must say a word about Leonard McCoy. As soon as we regrouped, the Enterprise was taken into dry dock for repair, and he simply refused to let any medic take the Captain from him. “He’s my damn Captain,” he snapped at anybody who dared to raise the subject, “and he’s not going anywhere without my say-so. Even in this condition, the med bay of the Enterprise has more up to date technology than anything you can provide”. And that was it, no arguments brooked. I feel that those trying to take the Captain looked into Dr McCoy’s eyes and realised that there was no possibility of it. And so he stayed on the ship, sealed within the medical bay as the work carried on around him, a point of stillness in an otherwise frenetic scene. It felt correct somehow, both he and the ship had been terribly, terribly hurt, but they could pull back from the brink together. And I noticed that Dr McCoy said not one word about the fact that I refused to leave the ship when the rest of the crew were given shore leave. He simply looked at me and nodded. Perhaps he saw his own expression mirrored in my eyes.

Two long weeks. Weeks where I continued to fulfil my duties, continued to function on some level, but always, always the void.

This man, this – human – had done the thing that I was permanently on guard against, the thing that I had trained myself to prevent. He was now underneath all of my defences. I was once told that this friendship would come to define me, but I had not understood. How could I have? What experience did I have of friendship, of what a friendship could mean, of how it could feel?

**

“His vitals are improving, Spock.” Dr McCoy was studying the display as he spoke. He looked as tired and drained as I felt. I could never have the easy intimacy that he shared with the Captain, and his expression made it clear how much, how desperately much he needed the Captain to survive.

His return to consciousness was sudden. Perhaps that should have been expected. A gradual reawakening would not suit his personality. One moment he was still and silent, the next his eyes were open and he was already trying to move. So typical of him. It was then that I realised we were about to enter a difficult phase that, as it turned out, tested even my patience to breaking point, and pushed Dr McCoy to the very edge of his final reserves.

**

“Oh, come on! I have the blood of a superman flowing through my veins. I could leap a tall building in a single bound. I could hold up the sky on my shoulders.” He pauses. “And I really don’t think a superman should be expected to –“ his nose wrinkles in perfect disdain, “REST”. I can hear the capital letters.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” snaps Dr McCoy. “Do I have to remind you that less than 72 hours ago you were – what’s the word? Oh yes, dead”. He scowls. “So rest is what you are going to do. Now, I do have other duties, so before I leave is there anything of which you are in desperate need?”

“Just my blankie.” The Captain is pouting, but there is also a twinkle in his eye, both of which are a joy to see. He looks so much like himself again. Dr McCoy laughs, so whatever a ‘blankie’ is, it is clearly nothing serious. As I had been on the verge of asking for clarification, my mouth is open, and without seeming to look the Captain reaches up and closes it for me. I can clearly see how much his arm is trembling with fatigue.

“Even a superman needs to give himself a chance to recover,” I say to him and he sighs in a manner that can only be described as theatrical, then turns away from us both. Within thirty seconds he is breathing deeply, his hands and shoulders relaxing as he sinks into sleep.

“What a child,” Dr McCoy mutters, but I can hear no malice in his tone, and assume this is another human trait, the intricacies of which escape me.

“You can stop watching him like he’s fragile cargo,” he adds. “He’s back and he’ll be fine. He just needs a lot of rest”.

“Of course, Doctor,” I respond. “I am very glad to hear that”. I turn and head for the door.

“You know, Spock, at some point you will have to process what you did for him”. I glance over my shoulder but Dr McCoy is looking at the scanner he has just used. I leave without responding.

**

I do not see him again for two days. I am kept busy by demands from the crew. Although the ship is now repaired and ready to resume her duties, nothing will happen until the Captain is fit enough to resume command. Starfleet understand this, although initially they did want to send us out on short-term missions. However, every single member of the crew flatly refused to go without their Captain. Clearly, I am not the only person he has affected.

Dr McCoy has decided that he is well enough to leave the medical bay and be transferred to his own cabin. He was of course offered off-ship recovery time, but snorted so hard that he almost passed out. We are all bonded to each other and to this ship. And I am bonded to him in a way I do not fully understand.

I enter the medical bay in order to assist in any way I can, and again the human side of me seems to rear its head, refusing to let the Vulcan side have any say. He is standing by the bed, but leaning heavily on it. He is dressed after a fashion although footwear seems to have been forgotten about. He is – again – arguing with Dr McCoy.

“I’m walking, Bones,” he says firmly. “I will not be wheeled down the corridor to my quarters. What kind of impression do you think that will give?”

“A better one than you falling flat on your face after a half dozen steps”, is the immediate retort. “And why do you think that people will see you? The crew aren’t lining the corridors like some kind of honour guard. Most of them are still off-ship actually, until we’re ready to fly again”.

“Don’t rub it in.” There is a definite – snark – to his tone. “I know it’s me holding everything up”.

“Yeah, it’s so inconvenient, isn’t it? Being dead”. Dr McCoy shakes his head and I am once again struck how human interaction works on many different levels. There is the surface level, which is all sarcasm and impatience, and a much deeper, quieter level, where concern and caring lie. They are a strange dichotomy, humans, and the most intriguing part of them are their friendships. I step forward.

“I think perhaps you should follow the doctor’s orders, Captain”.

This time they both snort.

“Don’t baby me, Spock,” says the Captain, at almost the same time that Dr McCoy says, “Leave him to it, the great infant”.

So of course he walks down to his quarters. He is a stubborn, stubborn man. It is just his nature. There is nobody lining the corridors, and after a short while and with a flick of his eyes that his half apology and half annoyance, he takes hold of my arm to steady himself. I do not want the thought to take hold, but it does anyway. He looks like a baby animal, all big eyes and unsteady legs, although is face is far too pale, and his eyes are full of bitter experience. I pretend to be unaware of this need for support and simply ensure that our strides match.

Once in his quarters, he lets go of my arm, lurches across the room and falls face-first onto his bed. He is asleep before he finishes bouncing.

“He never listens, does he?” Dr McCoy says, clearly rhetorically. “Help me get him into bed so at least he doesn’t wake up with a stiff neck to add to his problems”.

Touching him is a new kind of agony. He has lost weight of course, and he is at his most vulnerable as I pull off his top and arrange him in bed, where he turns onto his side, pulling the blankets up around his ears. I feel a pang of such tenderness that I almost gasp. How has this happened? How has he managed to confuse me so entirely?

Our childhoods have similarities – both of us were solitary children and whilst we both had a mother who loved us, he did not have the stability of a father. He has let fall in conversation, whether deliberately or not, that he suffered casual violence on a regular basis, which goes a long way towards explaining the shell that he has built around himself, as well as perhaps the relationship he built with Captain Pike which went so much deeper than officer/cadet. But of course Captain Pike is gone now.

**

It is so late that it is almost early when I hear the faintest tap on my door, as if whoever is out there is hesitant, unsure if they want to be heard. It can only be one person.

He is hanging onto the door frame, his fingers white in the subdued lighting. My cabin is some distance from his and the walk has taken too much out of him.

“Couldn’t sleep anymore,” he says, and I can hear the effort as he tries to speak normally. “I knew you’d be awake. I think Bones may be right when he says there’s nobody else on the ship”.

“Just the maintenance crew,” I reply, not moving. I can feel the heat coming off him.

“You going to let me in? If not, I warn you now that you’re going to have to catch me as I slide down this wall”.

I give in to temptation and reach out. I want to touch, and touch, and touch – I want to know him in every angle of his body. But all I do is help him to a seat and then sit myself. Together we gaze out over the dry dock, still a hive of activity, even at this hour.

His voice is so soft that were I not hyper-attuned to him, I do not believe I would have heard.

“Thanks,” he says. “I know what you did for me. If not for you, I wouldn’t be here”.

“Captain – Jim –“. Uncharacteristically I do not have the words.

“I feel like shit, but it’s getting better. And no matter what, there is nothing – nothing in the universe – better than this.” He gestures randomly at the uninspiring view in front of us. “Just being able to see it, you know? Just knowing that I’ll see it again tomorrow…” He shakes his head. “So yeah, thanks.” He reaches over and although I see the slightest hesitation, he puts his hand on my arm. He likes to touch, this man. My whole body jerks in response and he pulls back immediately, holding up both hands, palms turned towards me. “Sorry”.

“No…” I stop, again frustrated and bewildered by my lack of coherence. “No.” These emotions are so unfamiliar to me, and yet they are so strong. 

“When you died,” I say, very low, very quiet, as unsure of myself as I have ever been, “I felt - I felt so much anger, so much pain. You deserve life”.

He quirks an eyebrow at me but does not speak, perhaps tired or perhaps as confused as I. But he moves his hand again, once more resting it on my arm. And this time I do not flinch.

Again, he falls asleep, his head drooping until it is resting against the arm that is in turn reaching out to me. He looks both comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time - a feat that I suspect only he can manage. I admit to myself that I would be happy to sit like that for what remains of the night, but I am only too well aware of how downright obnoxious he can be when he is tired or uncomfortable, and I have no wish to be blamed for the crick in his neck that will undoubtedly develop as a result of his absurd posture. So I stand up as carefully as I can and coax him to his feet. He stands, huffing out some comment, but he does not wake as I walk him towards my bunk. I tell myself that it is closer, more convenient, and that he would wake if I took him to his own cabin. All of this is true, and if there is any other reason, well it does not need to be acknowledged.

**  
A week later we are finally ready to leave dock. I am on the bridge when he comes in, and brings with him all that fizzing energy.

What lies ahead is a simple, short-hop mission. Dr McCoy has insisted that he pace himself and that no amount of claiming he is a ‘superman’ is going to make the doctor change his mind.

“Mr Sulu, how are we looking?” He throws himself into his chair, nodding when Mr Sulu gives the all-clear. “Let’s go drop off the delegation and then get on with something that has a little more bite.” He looks at me and says very quietly, “being dead gives you a whole new outlook.” He blinks at me very slowly and deliberately which is his version of a wink. I am not sure which is more notable - that he has winked at me, or that I know he cannot wink properly. On balance, both.

**

The Enterprise orbits the planet where the conference is to be held. Tomorrow we drop them off, but tonight there has been a reception on board, and the Captain seemed to get through it gracefully, although in my hyper-aware state, I was able to see him begin to flag before he quietly left the gathering early, nodding to me to take over hosting duties. Later, I walk down to his cabin and stand irresolute as a teenager, outside his quarters. The sudden opening of the door startles me, and he laughs, standing there in soft grey trousers and a loose top. A drink is held casually in one hand, his eyes are heavy lidded and a smile plays around his lips. My mouth goes dry. I can see the way the trousers are riding low on his hipbones, offering a glimpse of honey coloured flesh, and - I do not understand. Why have I suddenly lost control where he is concerned? No, not suddenly. I have lost control with him before, but in anger, wanting to lash out and hurt him, to remove him. But perhaps all deep emotions come from the same place and one is no more than the flipside of the other.

“Spock,” he says, his voice low and full of sleep and warmth. “I knew it was you. You have a certain - aura - that you carry around”.

“And you could sense that aura through the thickness of your cabin door?”

“I’m a sensitive kind of guy,” he replies, and smirks, before becoming serious once again. “Thanks though, really. Thanks for stepping in tonight”. He takes a sip of his drink and frowns. “I still get so damn tired. Wish I knew why, when I’ve got super-blood”. He holds up a hand. “It’s okay, I don’t really want to know the scientific reasons”. He moves back into his quarters and beckons me in with the slightest movement of his head. “Sit yourself down and tell me what I can do for you”.

“I simply wanted to ensure that you were well - Jim”, I say finally, and watch as his eyes narrow, perfectly aware of how weak that sounds.

“Well, I’m fine,” he says, and lets a silence build in a way which I feel sure is deliberate. And I feel - awkward. I feel as if I want to speak, but I have nothing of any relevance to say.

“It’s okay”. He puts his bare feet up on the low table in front of him. “I’ve been waiting for you to get up the nerve. We should talk about stuff, I guess”.

“Get up the nerve?” My tone of voice makes him smile, but his eyes are still hooded with fatigue. “I can assure you, Captain, that ‘nerve’ has never been the issue”.

“Whatever you say”. He tilts his head back and silence falls again, although this one does feel a little different. More comfortable and yet somehow more - charged.

“It feels weird”. The words insinuate themselves into the quiet. “I know what happened, and I know why it happened, and most of the time I’m fine with that. And then sometimes, I’ll just - stop. And I’ll remember that I died”. He runs his hand through his hair. “And I remember that you saved me. You literally brought me back to life”.

“No,” I say. “Dr McCoy and Khan brought you back to life. Your own spirit brought you back. I simply brought Khan back”.

For a moment he looks startled, his jaw dropping open, and then his face creases and he starts to laugh, hiding his face with his hand in that characteristic way of his.

“I guess you’re right,” he say when he has calmed down. “But I should still thank you. Wish I’d seen you when you had him…” He pauses and then adds ruefully, “After all, I know you can fight”. He reaches out with one of his feet and kicks gently at my knee. “And thanks - you know - for being there when I - you know…” With a sudden surge of energy he puts down his drink and stands up, moving to the window and gazing out at the infinite, summoning me to stand with him by the merest alteration in his stance. I move obediently until we are shoulder to shoulder, and I am struck by the rightness of it; this is how it should always be - standing together against whatever the universe can throw at us.

He senses my mood yet again, and nods. “Got a long way to go,” he says and puts his hand on my forearm. “We’re only at the start of this journey”. This time I do not pull away. Instead, I look down at his hand where it rests easily, and then up at his face into those clever, knowing eyes. It is too easy to dismiss this man, to forget that behind the drive and the charm is a man who is a genius-level thinker, and empathic with it.

“Yes,” I say simply, not attempting to move - not wanting to - “this is just the beginning”.


End file.
